


Web of Lies

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Series: D&D Original Stories [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Blackmail, Bounty Hunters, Kidnapping, Organized Crime, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Crossing the seas for a job is nothing to write home about for Lazal. She chases after criminals, lawbreakers, cheating spouses and stolen valuables. Her first landlocked job in a while is waiting for her come morning, so what better way to spend the night than to have fun drinking and, you know, running after a cutpurse in the streets of Forsoth?





	Web of Lies

“Nicely done” I say to myself and to my gambling winnings as I saunter down the brightly lit deck of _The Emerald Maiden_ , a modestly sized vessel that, for better or for worse, has been docked in the marina in Forsoth for the past couple of decades. The owner, a wizened, ancient-looking woman, is still spry as the day she first started exploring the seas, or so she claims. I had my doubts that the old lady had ever set foot anywhere else in the world – the ship’s too fancy and dolled-up now to be able to tell if it ever was fit to brave the Wyrm’s Sea. Barnacles blossom up the side of the hull and strings of lights and lanterns in yellows and oranges entangle the mast and sails so much it’s a miracle nothing has taken to flames yet, not to mention that nothing here looks sea-worthy. But the woman’s stories sound too realistic to be completely made up. Nearly everyone who’s been at sea knows about Arrowhead Island, it’s barely a week’s worth of travel from here and most people stop there on their way further west, but the details of the old lady’s tales ring too true to be tall-tales fabricated to pass the time.

“Emerald” – like the verdant forests of the islands on the Empire’s side of the continent, along the Archipelago. But a “Maiden”? Really? Not that I believe it, not when you turn your ship into a shady tavern, watering-hole and brothel, all in one place. That’s why I came here despite how hilarious the ship looked. I’m not one to talk down on tacky stuff, but docking in the canal and leaving this eyesore were everyone can see it? That’s weird. But, the locals seem to enjoy it enough. A guy with an accent and looks as exotic as mine elbowed me on the way in – unprompted and nearly sparking a brawl, as far as I’m concerned – and said with an airy voice and a gaze of child-like wonder that the place reminded him of Lorn Am’lewg, just so. I’ve been there, my man, and you must’ve been gone too long if you think The Emerald Maiden can hold a candle to the real thing. But, it’s not too shabby; the wine is good and well-aged, the gals and guys are not too bad to look at, and it’s not like I can complain anyway.

The pouch in my hand is hefty enough to be worth having to stay in this shithole, and being this far north really robs me of any right to complain. I accepted the job in Anheral, a landlocked one, even! So yeah. It’s on me. I just can’t wait to get the rest of the payment and be back on the sea once again.

 

I toss the pouch in the air, just as I cross over the nailed-down gangplank – another sign the Maiden is in no rush to set sail. Then, like a shiver running down the back of my neck, I feel it: the piercing gaze of a common cutpurse, sizing me up from the alley right across the pier. Really? I thought Forsoth was full of proper thieves, isn’t there supposed to be a whole band of pirates somewhere nearby?

Fuck ‘im, I’ll show the rascal who’s the boss around here. I pocket the purse, dropping it into my trusted travel bag; I hoist it firmly over my shoulder and lock eyes with the little guy in the alley. I swear I can feel him gasp beyond the cover of shadows, before he starts running down the narrow street. My ever-present smirk turns into more of a shit-eating grin and I give chase.

I’m buzzed, I’m not gonna lie. The drinks at the Maiden really remind you of Lorn Am’lewg, all strong brews with impossible colors and a fruity taste that betrays the headache you’ll get the following morning. But I’m not _plastered_ , and it’s not the first time I run after a little thief and shake _him_ down. Travelling from one end of the continent to the other chasing marks doesn’t pay as well as one would think – I gotta make my own profit. Sometimes that means taking some mercenary work in whatever city I find myself in, other days it means breaking the law – slightly, and just with other lawbreakers. Two crimes cancel each other out, right? Besides, it’s not like they can detain a bounty-hunter. I chase people, and sometimes kill them, for a living. Who’s the guard to say I’m not on the job? People disappear all the time. And no one has ever complained about me ridding a town of a criminal, on the run from the justice of their own homeland. Many a noble back in Saha know how valuable cutting loose ends can be – for business and for one’s own peace of mind. I came all the way north to chase after a known con-man, a smuggler and art thief who has played many noble houses of Emera with his fake gemstone and worthless baubles. What better place to hide than the Jeweled Bay, where there are so many shiny things to make it easy to blend in? In the morning I shall start inquiring about the man I was paid to find, but for tonight, I wanted to have some fun, sample the local nightlife, see the local color and case what kind of lowlifes I’ll have to deal with. Apparently, not very bright ones.

I vault over a stack of crates, wind between two stone pillars and turn a corner before the rat manages to disappear into another side alley; I keep giving chase, going up a set of steps carved into the bluffs and gaining ground. Between two low wooden sheds, I catch a glimpse of the boy, seconds before he sprints into the open of a small courtyard nestled between warehouses. A nicely-dressed woman is holding her puffy skirt and retching down a drain. She leans against the brick wall and exhales, cleaning her mouth with a silken handkerchief and burping soundly into the night. From behind her, bright lights pour into the street – probably the lanterns of another tavern, the one she chose to over-indulge in spirits. Without the woman taking notice, the rascal takes a look around, doesn’t seem to notice me and plunges into a nearby hatch. Meanwhile, I’m catching my breath and observing from a raised patio. I’m not as spry as I used to be – I’m still a fair contender, but I’m thankful the idiot made himself so obvious.

The hatch seems to be connected to the tavern, it could possibly be the basement entrance, or the wine cellar. Easy enough a place to corner the little shit and scare the living daylights out of him, for sure.

I stick to the shadows, back scraping against the stone walls of the buildings that surround the little courtyard. The woman turns the corner and I hop all the way to the tavern, as silently as possible.

I feel pleased with myself, but my excitement quickly wanes when I notice that the hatch has been shut behind the boy. Locked. I jimmy the door, feeling for loose spots, I look around for a padlock or something but it’s clear that the latch is on the other side. I huff into the late-night air, frustrated; I’m thinking about getting nice and drunk after this, back at the Maiden, to drown out the disappointment. But before I can rise to my knees, just as some joint on the left side of my body groans under the movement – undoubtedly another consequence of that time D’wen cursed me, back when we used to raid tombs together – my vision goes completely black.

Lights out everywhere around me, my breath is stale against my frowning face where it’s stopped by a thick hood. A lace tightens around my neck, almost cutting my air supply. I swallow as much as I can, bulging out my throat so that whoever’s trying to bind me doesn’t get their way. I do the same with my clenched fists as soon as a different pair of hands tries to hold me using some type of rope or cord. Anything to get some leeway, it might be the only thing that can get me out of this.

I’m spun around, a deep chuckle welcomes my growling and I’m unceremoniously patted down right there, in the middle of a decently-lit courtyard. Is Forsoth such a shithole that no one would call the guards if something went down at the marina? I was under the assumption this wasn’t that bad a neighborhood. Corruption, maybe, then.

Hands touch where they’re not supposed to, but to be fair I do keep my dagger close to my heart. Once they find the other one I keep in my boot, nothing stops them from thoroughly swiping at my thighs and hips. I stiffen, I don’t want to give them any sort of sick satisfaction.

I hear the latch clattering behind me – what a bunch of assholes, they’re not even bringing me someplace else? Well, if they don’t care that I know where they’re taking me… hmm, that’s not good. One of the two snatches my tricorne from my head, mussing up my carefully combed-over hair. If that wasn’t enough of a blow to my pride, a grubby, meaty hand latching onto them and pushing at me until I move towards the cellar and bend down into it – then, that does it. No one. Fucking. Touches. My hair. I start kicking, pirouetting with practiced motions, hitting where I _know_ will hurt the most. A choked, curt grunt echoes against the stone walls, but even that isn’t enough to make them relent.

I thought it couldn’t get any darker than that, but when the other goon smashes something that crunches and squelches against the back of my head… that’s when everything gets truly, incomparably black.

 

I regain consciousness to a head full of cotton and _pain_ and I jolt awake, tightly bound to a chair. My hands behind the back of it, each ankle and calf tightened to one of its legs. A thick rope constricts my breathing. I look at my lower half and see my britches ripped at the knees, covered in dust and dirt. I feel the sting in my knuckles from where the goons have probably dragged me down the staircase, none too gently.

I raise my head, slowly and keenly aware of the piercing pain and the wetness of blood that tinges the stray strands of my hair pink in front of my eyes. The pain pulsating inside my skull reverberates all over my face, and gets lost behind the left half of it – for the first time since it happened, I’m glad I lost sensation to it.

“Well, well. I finally have the pleasure of meeting the infamous LaSalle… “ Says a ringing, high-pitched voice from across the room. Sitting on a padded chair that couldn’t look more out of place in this dim cellar, lit only by a few torches, is a willow-thin elven man. Reddish brown hair, piercing and unkind gray eyes. A rolling burr that I immediately recognize – he’s not native of Forsoth, this elf clearly comes from further south. Port Kilvarn? He’s dark-skinned and tanned, but the skin’s almost sunburnt high on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. A ship captain, perhaps? Doesn’t look like a manual laborer…

“And you are?“ I croak, feeling the gravel in my words. I’m parched and the strain is getting to me. This isn’t looking good. My voice tilts up, almost mockingly, if it wasn’t for the fact that I genuinely don’t know who this guy even is.

“Now, now. You don’t need to know that.” He gets up and takes a step towards me. “I need a favor, that’s all. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I cannot properly hire you, so I decided to fetch you… “ Another step, crossing the distance. “And have a civil conversation… “ Another one. He’s right in front of me, now. “And enlist your help.”

He eyes me like I’m some sort of prey. There’s something unsettling about his gaze. Like he kills people for fun. I know that look, and I wish I hadn’t noticed it.

“Why? Why me? Why should I work for you?” It hurts to speak, and I’m hyper-aware of how hard it is to emote when you’re bound, bleeding, and can’t move half of your face. I push down the tears that are threatening to surface.

He notices the moment of weakness. He smiles with a flash of too-white teeth. This man is too well-off not to get what he wants, when he wants it. His hand comes into view, hovers in front of my face. He scans it, reads something in my frown – he must’ve – and finally settles his hand at my temple. Again, I stiffen, paralyzed by fear. He caresses my forehead and gathers a few strands of hair, tucking them behind my pointed ear. The hair tangles in my earrings and pulls on my scalp. It’s humiliating more than it’s unpleasant or painful. It must show on my face, in the way I squint his way. He chuckles.

“A shame. You could look so pretty if only life had been kinder to you. Lucky for me, your sister is still as beautiful as the day I met her.”

**Author's Note:**

> You're welcome to leave a comment with how you picture Lazal based on my description! Did I do a good job conveying her features and physical characteristics?  
> Or just tell me what you think! And thanks for reading!


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